IMOGEN  •  CLARK 


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THE    LAS'   DAY 


BY 

IMOGEN    CLARK 


JSSStljj  illustrations 
BY  S.  OLIVIA   RINEHART 


NEW    YORK 
ANSON  D.  F.  RANDOLPH  &  CO. 

(INCORPORATED) 
182  FIFTH  AVENUE 


Copyright,  1892, 
BY  ANSON  D.  F.  RANDOLPH  &  Co. 

(INCORPORATED.) 


anibrrsitg  Jprtss : 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

"  There  came  to  us  on  the  soft  air  the  sound  of 
a  woman's  voice  calling,  '  Dave,  Dave ! ' " 

Frontispiece 

"  I  noticed  one  small  star  " 12 

"  And  then  Marthy  would  catch  him  in  her 

arms  an'  cuddle  an'  kiss  him  "  ....  38 

"Marthy  in  her  gray  frock  a-kneelin'  by  the 

baby's  high  chair " 46 

The  two  Rocking  Chairs 5° 


2061717 


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7° 

>L^V^ 


THE   LAS'   DAY. 


i. 


THE  old  gray  house  on  the  hillside, 
with  its  weatherbeaten  clapboards 
and  its  roof  of  ragged  shingles,  stood  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  village  of  Bend's 
Centre.  It  was  a  good  mile  away  from 
the  "  Green,"  where  the  Meetin'-house, 
the  country  store,  and  a  dozen  or  more 
houses  were  grouped  in  a  sociable  semi- 
circle bristling  with  importance.  It  al- 
most seemed  as  if,  in  the  march  of  events, 
the  gray  house  had  been  left  behind  —  like 
some  belated  straggler  —  and  had  never 
caught  up  with  the  others,  but  had  re- 
mained there  by  itself  wrapped  in  tranquil 
security,  growing  grayer  and  older  as  the 
years  rolled  by.  Aside  from  the  loneli- 


8  The  Las'  Day. 

ness  of  its  position,  which  was  to  a  certain 
degree  pathetic,  there  was  nothing  in  the 
humble  building  to  attract  more  than  a 
casual  notice. 

I  was  a  summer  visitor  in  the  little 
village,  and  had  passed  the  house  a  score 
of  times  with  no  feeling  of  curiosity  as  to 
its  inhabitants,  their  number,  age,  or  sex. 
To  me  the  grayness  and  monotony  of 
color  seemed  typical  of  their  lives.  They 
had  peace,  but  it  was  the  peace  and  quiet 
of  stagnation.  No  vain  desire  of  un- 
known things  puzzled  their  breasts.  The 
world  with  its  storm  and  stress  did  not 
touch  them  in  this  quiet  country-side. 
They  were  content  to  live  their  little  day 
knowing  nothing  of  the  greater  issues  at 
stake,  secure  and  calm  as  the  cattle  graz- 
ing under  the  trees,  and  with  no  more 
thought  than  they.  A  dull,  uneventful 
life,  and  the  gray  house  seemed  a  fit 
shelter  for  the  folk  who  called  it  home. 

I  had  passed  it  unheedingly,  as  I  have 
said,  or  had  only  noted  it  as  a  point  to 


The  Las'  Day.  9 

mark  the  progress  of  my  day's  walk. 
Once,  however,  it  seemed  to  me  a  fail- 
type  of  the  House  Beautiful  toward  which 
the  weary  pilgrim  journeyed  in  the  old 
story.  It  was  at  the  close  of  a  summer 
day,  and  the  low-lying  sun  was  filling  the 
land  with  broad  shafts  of  yellow  light. 
They  touched  the  old  house,  making  the 
clapboards  gleam  like  silver,  and  turned 
the  windows,  with  their  tiny  panes  of 
common  glass,  into  a  sparkling  mass  of 
gold,  with  here  and  there  a  flash  of  fiery 
red,  or  brilliant  green,  or  royal  purple. 
The  perfume  of  the  flowers  in  the  small, 
old-fashioned  garden  filled  the  air.  The 
scent  of  the  roses  mingled  with  the  pun- 
gent odor  of  the  box  that  bordered  both 
sides  of  the  little  path  leading  from  the 
gate  to  the  low-hung,  sagging  door  with 
its  worn  knocker. 

The  glory  only  lasted  a  few  minutes. 
But  as  I  lingered  by  the  gate,  filled  with 
the  thought  that  the  lives  that  seem  so 
cramped  and  dull  to  us  are  transformed 


io  The  Las'  Day. 

by  the  touch  of  Heaven  into  a  beauty 
the  world  cannot  give,  a  woman's  voice 
was  lifted  in  sudden  song.  I  could  not 
see  the  singer,  nor  was  there  any  par- 
ticular sweetness  in  her  voice,  but  the 
simple  words  found  their  way  to  my 
heart : 

"  While  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night, 

All  seated  on  the  ground, 

The  angel  of  the  Lord  came  down, 

And  glory  shone  around." 

There  was  a  short  pause  as  if  the  singer 
were  busy  over  some  household  task,  then 
her  voice  rang  out  again,  clearer  and 
fuller: 

"  All  glory  be  to  God  on  high, 

And  to  the  earth  be  peace, 
Good  will  henceforth  from  Heaven  to  men 
Begin  and  never  cease." 

The  woman's  song  died  away  as  sud- 
denly as  it  had  begun.  The  day  was  over, 
and  the  after-glow  that  crimsoned  the  west 
faded  slowly,  and  the  soft  shadows  of  twi- 
light crept  up  changing  the  house  from 


The  Las'  Day.  u 

silver  to  gray.  The  old  prosaic  order  of 
things  was  restored.  But  as  I  turned 
away  I  noticed  one  small  star  piercing 
the  blue  right  above  the  house.  It 
seemed  like  a  benediction  from  God  ! 

That  same  evening  I  learned  from  my 
voluble  landlady  that  Dave  Tucker  lived 
in  the  gray  house.  "  He 's  lived  there 
ever  sence  he  was  a  young  'un,  when 
his  uncle  Obadiah  Bascom  'dopted  him. 
Dave's  mother  was  a  Bascom.  An'  then 
when  Obadiah  died  an'  the  house  come 
to  Dave  he  married  Marthy  Allen  from 
Green  River  an'  brought  her  home.  So 
there  they've  lived  for  nigh  on  ten  years. 
Happy  ?  Well,  yes,  I  should  say !  Ez 
happy  ez  mortils  kin  be,  —  happier  than  the 
most  of  us  I  'm  thinkin'  !  Though  there 
was  a  time  when  they'd  most  agreed  on 
separatin'  all  along  of  some  fool  quarr'l, 
but  they  patched  it  up  between  'em  some- 
how. An'  now  it  do  seem  ez  ef  love 
hed  come  to  stay  up  to  their  place.  I 
don't  know  the  true  in'ards  of  the  story 


12 


The  Las'  Day. 


myself.  Marthy  aint  one  to  gossip  'bout 
her  affairs,  an'  though  Dave  's  a  sosh'able 
man  ez  you  'd  meet  on  a  summer's  day, 
he 's  ez  close  ez  a  clam  'bout  their  makin' 
up." 


The  Las'  Day. 


II. 


THE  gray  house  after  that  «ight  be- 
came a  more  interesting  feature  in 
the  landscape,  as  I  passed  it  daily  in  my 
walks.  Despite  its  placid  exterior,  it  had 
been  the  scene  of  warring  thoughts  and 
words.  Love  had  almost  died  there.  By 
what  wonderful  potion  had  it  been  re- 
vived ?  What  spell  had  wrought  the 
peace  that  had  found  expression  in  the 
woman's  singing  ?  Would  it  not  be  well, 
I  wondered,  if  I  could  discover  the  secret 
that  had  drawn  two  hearts  together  when 
they  were  at  cross  purposes  and  the  love 
that  had  warmed  their  hearthstone  was 
growing  cold  ?  What  would  not  the 
world  give  for  such  a  secret !  Ah  !  what 
would  not  I  give,  weary,  and  worn,  and 
sad! 


14  The  Las'  Day. 

By  degrees  I  ventured  upon  a  nearer 
acquaintance  with  the  inmates  of  the 
house,  but  Mrs.  Tucker  was  hedged 
about  with  a  fine  reserve  which  I  could 
not  penetrate.  She  was  a  small,  narrow- 
shouldered  woman,  with  a  sweet  face,  that- 
still  showed  traces  of  a  beauty  which  must 
have  been  hers  in  girlhood  ;  but  though 
she  met  my  overtures  smilingly  she  held 
me  at  a  distance,  and  I  used  to  leave  her 
presence  with  my  questions  unasked.  It 
was  no  vulgar  curiosity  that  impelled  me 
to  learn  the  story  of  their  reconciliation. 
The  unhappiness  in  my  own  life  urged  me 
to  discover  the  means  that  had  been  in- 
strumental in  bringing  about  their  happi- 
ness. It  almost  seemed  to  me  that,  could 
I  know  their  story,  the  rough  road  of  my 
future  would  suddenly  be  made  smooth. 

If  the  exterior  of  the  old  house  had 
symbolized  peace,  the  interior  more  surely 
and  exactly  carried  out  that  promise. 
There  was  a  tender  happiness  pulsating 
in  the  air  that  soothed  my  weary  heart 


The  Las'  Day.  75 

from  the  first  moment  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  general  living-room.  I  had  made 
my  entrance  with  the  modest  request  for 
a  glass  of  water,  and  lingered  chatting  to 
my  hostess,  who  met  my  advances  with 
some  timidity  of  manner.  I  admired  the 
old  china  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a 
genuine  collector,  but  my  warm  phrases 
were  of  no  avail.  Mrs.  Tucker  only 
waxed  superficially  communicative. 

"  The  chiny  hed  ben  Aunt  Sophrony 
Allen's,  an'  them  pewter  porringers  hed 
b'longed  to  ole  Mis  Bascom." 

With  that  information  I  was  obliged  to 
take  my  leave,  but  I  did  not  so  easily  give 
up  the  attack. 

Frequently  I  stopped  at  the  kitchen 
door  on  one  errand  or  another,  and  was 
always  met  by  the  same  gentle  smile  and 
ready  hospitality,  though  I  was  conscious 
of  a  dignity  in  the  little  country-woman 
which  would  have  resented  any  questions 
concerning  her  history  as  an  impertinence 
on  my  part.  I  chatted  with  her  in  her 


1 6  The  Las'  Day. 

garden,  and  received  from  her  hands  on 
many  occasions  "  posies "  bound  about 
with  long  ends  of  "  striped  grass,"  but  she 
did  not  give  me  what  my  heart  was  long- 
ing for,  and  for  what  I  could  make  no  de- 
mand. She  seemed  like  a  spirit  of  content 
at  all  times,  but  especially  so  in  her  gar- 
den, which  was  a  riot  of  color  and  old- 
fashioned  flowers.  White  roses  climbed 
over  the  little  porch  and  nodded  their 
sweet  faces  in  the  breeze,  and  in  the  beds 
—  kept  in  bounds  by  the  orderly  box  — 
were  mignonette  and  boy's-love,  pansies, 
common  striped  carnations,  love-lies-bleed- 
ing, sweet-williams,  and  great,  flaming 
hollyhocks,  while  near  the  gate  grew 
clumps  of  succory  as  blue  as  the  summer 
sky,  and 

"  Sweet  peas  on  tiptoe  for  a  flight 
With  wings  of  gentle  flush  o'er  delicate  white." 

I  noticed  from  the  first  that,  although 
she  tended  all  the  flowers  with  loving  care, 
she  lingered  longest  and  most  fondly  by 
the  hardy  little  sweet-williams,  nor  can  I 


The  Las'  Day.  17 

recall  a  time  during  our  acquaintance 
when  she  did  not  wear  a  handful  of  their 
blossoms  either  at  her  throat  or  on  her 
breast.  It  was  such  an  unusual  thing  in 
one  of  her  class,  that  I  found  myself  won- 
dering at  her  adornment. 

"  You  seem  very  fond  of  that  flower,"  I 
said  to  her  once.  She  put  her  hand  to  her 
breast  and  covered  the  nodding  blossoms 
with  a  quick,  half  shy,  half  proud  gesture, 
while  a  rush  of  color  dyed  her  thin  cheeks. 
"  Yes,"  she  answered  with  an  awkward 
laugh,  "  I  am  powerful  fond  of  it." 

Then  she  moved  away,  as  if  resenting 
further  questions.  She  was  as  elusive  as 
the  yellow-winged  butterflies  in  her  gar- 
den, and  as  shy  of  any  approach  as  they. 
When  I  knew  her  better,  I  respected  the 
dignity  that  kept  this  record  of  her  life 
sacred,  though  for  a  long  time,  accus- 
tomed as  I  was  to  my  landlady's  garrulity, 
I  resented  the  silence  that  so  effectually 
thwarted  my  plans.  Had  I  told  her  of 
my  own  sorrow,  her  experience  might 


1 8  The  Las'  Day. 

have  prompted  her  to  sympathize  and  aid 
me ;  but,  with  that  strange,  unaccountable 
shrinking  one  woman  so  often  feels  to- 
wards another,  I  could  not  speak  of  my 
past  life.  I  was  too  shy  to  unveil  my  feel- 
ings to  strange  eyes. 


The  Las'  Day.  ig 


III. 

I  DID  not  progress  better  with  the  hus- 
band, Dave  Tucker.  He  was  a  tall, 
angular  fellow  of  five  and  thirty  or  there- 
abouts, with  a  frank,  open  face,  pleasant 
eyes,  and  smiling  mouth.  He  was  inclined 
to  be  talkative,  and  even  merry.  Often  in 
passing  the  gray  house  I  would  hear  his 
cheerful  whistle  as  he  worked  his  land, 
and  he  was  never  too  busy  to  grudge  me  a 
few  minutes'  chat.  Despite  this  apparent 
friendliness,  we  never  got  beyond  the  crops 
or  the  probabilities  of  dry  or  wet  weather. 
Personalities,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned, 
were  rigidly  excluded.  Now  and  then,  as 
the  time  slipped  by,  he  enlivened  his  chat 
with  some  bit  of  gossip  about  his  neigh- 
bors or  some  quaint  criticism  of  their 
doings.  But  there  was  no  word  about 


20  The  Las'  Day. 

himself.  I  think  it  never  occurred  to  the 
simple  fellow  that  I  would  —  or  could  —  be 
interested  in  his  own  life  and  feelings, 

One  afternoon  towards  the  end  of  the 
summer,  when  my  stay  in  the  little  prim- 
itive village  was  drawing  to  a  close,  I 
stopped  at  a  field  where  he  was  working 
and  called  to  him.  He  looked  up  at  the 
sound  of  my  voice  and  then  lounged  to- 
wards me,  a  broad  smile  lighting  up  his 
face.  I  had  my  arms  full  of  golden-rod, 
and  as  he  came  up  I  held  out  some  stalks 
to  him. 

"  It  do  beat  all,"  he  said  reflectively, 
and  with  no  other  sign  of  greeting,  "  how 
you  City  folks  go  about  pickin'  up  sech 
trash  an'  a-deckin'  out  of  yourselves! 
We  don't  never  think  of  sech  things." 

"  Your  wife  does,"  I  laughed  mischiev- 
ously. "  She  always  wears  some  sweet- 
williams." 

"  Oh,  my  wife !  "  he  said,  with  an  un- 
conscious lowering  of  his  voice.  "  Yes, 
I  know  —  God  bless  her  !  " 


The  Las'  Day.  21 

He  seemed  to  forget  my  presence  after 
that  little  speech,  and  stood  gazing  far  be- 
yond me,  with  a  soft,  almost  reverential 
expression  on  his  face,  such  as  I  had  seen 
on  several  occasions  when  he  had  spoken 
to  his  wife. 

"  I  shall  be  going  back  to  town  in  a  few 
days  now,"  I  went  on  after  a  moment,  re- 
calling him  from  his  thoughts. 

He  started  at  the  sound  of  my  voice. 
"  Aint  that  rayther  suddint  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  But  I  s'pose  you  Ve  a  hankerin'  for  your 
own  home." 

I  laughed  a  trifle  bitterly.  "  Oh,  yes  ! 
I  have  a  hankering  for  my  home,"  I  said. 

He  had  spoken  without  much  show  of 
interest  and  as  if  his  thoughts  were  else- 
where, but  there  was  that  in  my  tone  that 
stung  him  into  instant  attention.  He 
looked  at  me  gravely,  wonderingly,  ap- 
preciating that  something  was  amiss,  and 
yet  —  great,  tender  hearted  fellow  !  —  re- 
luctant to  cause  me  pain  by  evincing  any 
curiosity.  But  the  feeling  that  denied  him 


22  The  Las'  Day. 

speech  found  expression  in  his  glance.  I 
met  his  earnest  brown  eyes — as  earnest 
and  tender  as  a  dog's  in  their  mute,  loving 
sympathy  —  with  a  quickening  heart-beat. 

"  I  've  no  home  worth  the  name,"  I  said, 
breaking  down  my  proud  reserve.  I  half 
turned  from  him  as  I  spoke,  then  with  a 
sudden  impulse  I  turned  back  and  put  my 
hands  on  his  arm.  The  golden-rod  fell 
to  the  ground,  and  lay  unheeded  at  my 
feet. 

"  Mr.  Tucker,"  I  cried,  "  will  you  tell  me 
about  the  time  when  you  and  your  wife 
came  near  parting  ?  Ah  !  don't  refuse 
me,"  I  went  on,  as  he  shrank  from  my 
touch  and  the  color  flamed  up  into  his 
sensitive  face,  "  and  don't  think  me  med- 
dlesome because  I  ask  to  hear  your  story." 

"  It 's  too  sacred  to  tell,"  he  muttered 
beneath  his  breath. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  I  interposed  ;  "  it  is 
sacred,  but  you  will  tell  it  to  me,  won't 
you  ?  Listen  !  I  am  not  happy.  I  came 
here  for  rest,  and  I  am  going  away  to  try 


The  Las'  Day.  23 

to  find  it.  I  shall  be  searching  for  it  my 
whole  life  long,  and  will  never  find  it  per- 
haps, unless  you  help  me  now.  There 
was  a  time  when  I  was  as  happy  as  you 
are,  and  then  the  something  that  made 
life  worth  living  died,  and  very  existence 
became  hateful.  Oh  !  don't  you  under- 
stand ?  We  loved  each  other,  —  my  hus- 
band and  I,  —  but  there  were  little  jars 
and  frets,  and  the  days  that  had  seemed  so 
warm  and  golden  grew  gray  and  cold,  and 
everything  was  changed.  It  may  have 
been  my  fault,  —  I  was  so  quick  and  incon- 
siderate, —  but  I  never  told  him  that.  And 
so,  with  the  unhappiness  growing  daily,  it 
seemed  best  for  us  to  part  !  When  I  go 
back  to  the  little  home,  I  shall  find  only 
loneliness  and  regret  there,  and  wherever 
I  go  in  the  world  I  shall  only  meet  loneli- 
ness and  regret.  For  I  have  n't  given 
over  loving  him,  and  my  heart  is  back  in 
the  old  days.  And  I  know  he  feels  as  I 
do,  but  what  can  we  do  ?  We  were  both 
so  proud,  —  we  are  both  so  proud  !  Oh  ! 


24  The  Las'  Day. 

if  there  is  any  way  back,  won't  you  show 
me  that  way  ?  You,  who  trembled  upon 
the  very  brink  of  unhappiness  and  are  now 
so  happy,  won't  you  help  me  before  it  is 
too  late  ? " 

"  Ef  I  felt  ez  ef  it  would  be  a  help,"  he 
said  irresolutely,  shifting  from  one  foot  to 
the  other,  "  I  would  n't  hold  back.  It  would 
seem  like  'a  call,'  but  I  don't  know  — " 
His  words  trailed  off  into  silence,  and  for 
a  few  minutes  he  stood  gazing  before  him 
with  puzzled  eyes.  "  I  don't  like  to  talk 
'bout  them  times  much,"  he  went  on;  "I'm 
right  down  sorry  to  disapp'int  ye,  Ma'm, 
but  there  's  some  things  a  man  don't  keer 
to  let  the  world  know,  an'  that 's  one  of 
'em." 

"  You  know  best,"  I  said,  a  little  sadly. 
"  I  thought  —  I  hoped  —  " 

He  stooped  down  and  looked  into  my 
face  without  speaking.  If  I  had  been  a 
whit  less  sincere  he  would  have  discovered 
it  in  a  moment,  though  he  was  far  from 
being  what  the  world  calls  a  shrewd 


The  Las'  Day.  25 

man.  The  honesty  of  his  nature  seemed 
to  give  him  an  unerring  penetration  which 
pierced  my  heart  and  the  thoughts  lurking 
there.  1  felt  that  he  saw  me  as  I  was, 
and  through  a  sympathy  which  may  have 
come  to  him  in  his  sorrow  he  recognized 
the  truth  of  my  words.  As  I  met  his 
glance  I  knew  that  he  was  ready  to  com- 
ply with  my  wish.  He  helped  me  up  on 
the  stone  wall  which  formed  the  boundary 
of  the  field  where  he  had  been  working. 
When  I  had  settled  myself  comfortably 
there,  he  leaned  against  the  upright  of 
the  gate  and  began  his  story,  in  his 
soft,  drawling  tones,  without  any  further 
preamble. 


26  The  Las'  Day. 


IV. 

"T1/TE'D  bed  words  an'  words,  an' 
*  •  we  could  n't  agree  nohow  !  It 
seemed  to  me  it  was  all  her  fault,  an'  it 
seemed  to  her  it  was  all  mine,  —  though  I 
couldn't  see  how  that  was! — but  there 
we  was  a-hurtin'  each  other  with  our  bitter 
looks  an'  our  bitterer  words,  —  we  who  hed 
promised  to  love  an'  cherish  one  another 
while  mortil  life  lasted  in  us.  But  laws 
sakes  !  't  was  too  much  to  expect,  an'  we 
jest  could  n't  keep  to  our  barg'in,  so  we 
agreed  to  say  good  by,  an'  part  ez  peace- 
able ez  we  could.  An'  so  the  las'  day 
come  'round."  He  drew  his  breath  hard 
for  a  moment,  as  though  the  memory  were 
too  much  for  him,  then  he  went  on  again. 
"  It  wa'  n't  much  of  a  day  outside,  for 
the  sky  was  gray  an'  lowerin'.  I  allowed 
it  would  come  on  to  pour  before  nightfall, 


The  Las'  Day.  27 

an'  it  'peared  to  me  ole  Ma'm  Nature  did 
look  oncommon  desolate  even  ef  it  was 
November.  There  wa*  n't  no  signs  of  life 
to  be  seen  anywheres,  everything  seemed 
so  cold  an'  dead.  The  trees  tossed  their 
branches  about  for  all  the  world  jest  like 
human  arms,  an'  they  seemed  to  p'int  at 
me  an'  then  at  the  house,  an'  the  creakin' 
sounded  jest  like  words.  An'  one  little 
tree  whispered  sorter  comfortin',  '  Go 
home !  go  home  ! '  But  the  big  trees 
bent  down  ez  ef  they  was  laughin',  an' 
sez  they,  '  Where  's  his  home  ?  That 's 
only  his  house,  where  's  his  home  ? '  An' 
then  the  wind  picked  up  the  words,  an' 
moaned  'em  out,  '  Where 's  his  home  ? 
Where  's  his  home  ? ' 

"  It  almost  druv  me  crazy  a-standin' 
there  lookin'  at  the  ole  house  an'  knowin' 
that  them  words  was  the  Gospil  truth.  It 
wa'n't  my  home  !  A  man's  heart's  got  to 
be  in  his  home  before  it  '11  be  anything 
more  to  him  than  jest  a  house.  An' 
there  's  got  to  be  suthin'  more  than  tables 


28  The  Las'  Day. 

an'  chairs  an'  furnychoor  to  make  it  vvuth 
the  livin'  in.  There  's  got  to  be  sunshine, 
an'  lovin'  words,  an'  lovin'  looks,  —  God's 
sunshine  I  call  'em  !  An'  where  they  come 
it  don't  matter  what  kind  of  a  house  holds 
'em,  whether  it 's  wood,  or  stun,  or  jest  a 
hovel,  it  '11  be  a  home  wuth  the  goin'  to. 
But  bless  ye,  Ma'm!  that  sunshine  hed  n't 
ben  in  our  house  for  a  dreffle  long  time, 
an'  so  I  knowed  the  big  trees  an'  the  wind 
spoke  the  truth  when  they  asked  kinder 
malicious,  'Where's  his  home?'  I  tell 
ye  it  makes  a  man  feel  oncomfort'ble  to 
hear  sech  a  truth  ez  that.  It  fills  him 
chock  full  of  longin's,  'specially  ef  he  re- 
members when  the  ole  house  was  jest  the 
dearest,  sweetest  home,  filled  with  sun- 
shine all  the  year  round.  But  mine  hed 
grown  cold,  an'  the  sunshine  hed  faded  out, 
an'  me  an'  my  wife  was  goin'  our  separit 
ways,  for  the  las'  day  hed  come.  I 
knowed  that  on  the  morrer  she  would  go 
back  to  her  own  people,  an'  I  would  hev 
the  ole  house  to  myself.  '  Go  home !  go 


The  Las'  Day.  29 

home  !  '  whispered  the  little  tree,  so  low 
that  the  big  trees  could  n't  hear  her. 
'It'll  be  lonesomer  to-morrer  when  she's 
gone,  it  '11  seem  more  like  home  to-day,  — 
the  las'  day,  —  because  she's  there  an'  ye 
know  ye  loved  her  oncet.' 

"  I  jest  dragged  my  cap  down  over  my 
ears  to  shet  out  what  the  wind  an'  the  big 
trees  would  say,  an'  walked  toward  the 
kitching  door  ez  onconsarned  ez  I  could, 
whistlin'  so  ez  not  to  surprise  her.  I  'd 
calkerlated,  ye  see,  on  not  comin'  back  till 
nightfall,  an'  I  'd  kerried  my  dinner  away 
in  a  pail ;  but  that  there  little  tree  an'  my 
feelin's  was  too  strong  for  me  an'  druv  me 
back.  So  I  whistled  '  Greenland's  Icy 
Mountings  '  ez  loud  an'  cheerful  ez  possi- 
ble ;  but  when  I  opened  the  kitching  door 
there  wa'  n't  nobody  in  the  room,  an'  of 
course  I  could  n't  call,  though  I  minded 
that  often  an'  often  when  I  'd  come  home 
unbeknownst  an*  shouted,  '  Marthy  !  Mar- 
thy  !  '  through  the  house,  she  'd  come 
laughin'  from  garret  or  cellar  to  meet  me 


;?o  The  Las'  Day. 

an'  —  But  shoh  !  all  them  days  was  over 
an'  gone." 

He  paused  and  looked  beyond  him  with 
a  gaze  that  did  not  take  in  the  beauties  of 
the  summer  afternoon.  He  was  lost  in  a 
reverie  that  was  full  of  sadness.  The 
warm,  wide  fields  about  us,  the  distant 
hills  so  clearly  defined  against  the  bright 
sky,  the  chirping  of  the  birds  in  the  trees 
close  at  hand,  said  nothing  to  him.  He 
stood  there  motionless,  as  if  he  were 
carved  out  of  stone,  a  rough,  unpictu- 
resque  figure,  in  common,  working-day 
garments,  with  wide,  yearning  eyes,  look- 
ing not  to  the  future  with  hope  but  back  to 
the  past  with  sorrow.  He  hardly  seemed 
alive,  save  that  now  and  again  his  mouth 
twitched  like  one  in  suffering. 

"  Don't  tell  me  any  more  if  it  hurls  you 
so,"  I  cried. 

He  turned  at  the  sound  of  my  voice, 
half  dazed  for  the  moment,  and  not  know- 
ing me,  so  vividly  was  he  living  over  those 
past  days  of  his.  Then  he  recalled  him- 


The  Las'  Day.  31 

self  with  a  start,  and  with  a  half  pathetic 
smile  took  up  the  thread  of  his  story. 

"  The  kitching  was  a  deal  sight  lone- 
somer  than  the  day  outside  an'  the  whisper- 
in'  trees  an'  wailin'  wind,  though  there  was 
a  good  fire  in  the  stove  an'  the  kettle  was 
singin'  away  softly  at  the  back.  All  my 
things  was  there  fixed  mighty  comfort'ble 
I  '11  allow.  There  was  my  favrit  chair  set- 
tin'  in  my  corner,  but  bless  ye!  I  wa'n't 
thinkin'  of  my  things.  I  missed  suthin' 
the  moment  ever  I  stepped  my  foot  in  the 
room.  It  was  her  chair,  the  little  rush- 
bottomed  chair  with  the  bright  red  rockers, 
that  useter  stand  so  near  mine.  Of  course 
't  was  hers  to  do  with  ez  she  pleased,  an' 
when  we'd  settled  on  partin'  she  sez  to 
me,  '  There  's  one  thing  I  'd  like  to  take 
away, —  the  little  chair  you  gave  me.' 

"  I  k  no  wed  what  it  was  before  she  'd 
asked,  her  voice  trembled  so,  an'  I.  sez, 
'  Yes,  yes  ! '  kinder  gruff,  for  I  felt  a  lump 
in  my  throat,  an'  I  hed  to  swaller  hard  to 
git  it  down.  I  s'pose  she  felt  I  was 


J2  The  Las'  Day. 

onfeelin'  then,  but  I  knowed  why  she 
wanted  it.  It  wa'  n't  because  I  give  it  to 
her,  —  I  wa'  n't  sech  a  fool  ez  to  think  that ! 
—  but  because  she  useter  rock  the  little 
one  to  sleep  in  that  chair.  An'  ye  see,  I 
thought  ef  she  hed  ben  more  consid'rate 
an'  hed  respected  my  feelin's  she  would  n't 
hev  asked  for  it.  She  'd  ought  to  hev 
known  that  the  ole  room  would  be  lone- 
some without  it !  I  sot  sech  a  store  by 
that  chair  !  Ye  would  n't  s'pose  now,  that 
because  it  hed  ben  taken  away  the  place 
would  look  so  bare.  But  it  did,  an'  the 
very  fust  step  I  took  into  the  kitching  that 
day  I  missed  it,  an'  then  I  knowed  that  she 
hed  put  it  with  her  things  ready  ag'in  the 
morrer.  I  'd  ben  hopin'  she  'd  overlook 
it,  for  it  would  hev  ben  a  little  homelike 
to  hev  seen  it  settin'  there.  It  jest  come 
over  me  all  of  a  heap  that  it  was  gone,  an' 
I  set  right  down  in  my  chair  an'  covered 
my  eyes  up  so  ez  not  to  see  the  bareness. 
An'  everything  come  back  to  me!  I 
s'pose  it  was  all  along  of  its  bein"  the 


The  Las'  Day.  33 

las'  day  that  I  remembered  so  clearly,  jest 
ez  they  say  at  the  Great  Las'  Day  we  '11 
remember  all  the  things  that  ever  we  did 
here.  Ez  I  set  there  my  mind  was  full  of 
picters,  an'  fust  of  'em  all  come  the  time 
when  I  bought  that  chair." 

He  broke  off  here  to  ask  me  if  I  was 
comfortable,  and  when  I  had  assured  him 
that  I  was,  he  went  on  with  his  story,  his 
sombre  face  lighting  up  with  the  memories 
his  words  evoked. 

"  It  was  a  July  afternoon.  I  'd  ben 
over  to  West  Sudbury  seein'  Farmer  Mil- 
ler 'bout  a  colt,  an'  drivin'  down  Main 
Street  I  caught  sight  of  that  chair  with  its 
bright  red  rockers.  I  stopped  then  an' 
there  an'  barg'ined  with  the  store-keeper 
for  it.  I  was  so  proud  when  we  come  to 
terms  that  I  would  n't  let  him  put  no 
wrappin's  round  it,  but  jest  h'isted  it  up 
alongside  o'  me  an'  druv  off.  It  was  nigh 
sundown  when  I  druv  up  to  our  door,  an' 
I  kin  smell  the  smell  of  the  box  as  it  come 
to  me  then,  an'  see  the  flowers  a-noddin' 
3 


34  The  Las'  Day. 

softly  in  the  summer  air  to  this  very  day. 
She  run  out  to  meet  me,  an'  she  looked  so 
pretty  in  her  caliker  frock  with  the  little 
sweet-william  blossom  —  my  favrit  flower 
—  tucked  in  her  waist-band,  that  my  heart 
jest  leaped  right  into  my  mouth.  She 
allers  wore  some  sweet-williams  for  my 
sake,  an'  she  wears  'em  still  for  me,  God 
bless  her!  She  stud  on  the  step  shadin' 
her  eyes  with  her  hand,  a-smilin'  an'  nod- 
din'  at  me. 

"'I've  got  suthin'  for  ye,  Mis  Tucker,' 
sez  I.  I  called  her  '  Mis  Tucker '  jest  to 
see  her  change  color.  Ye  see  she  hed  n't 
owned  that  name  but  a  fortnight,  an'  she 
felt  mighty  important  'bout  it.  Then  I 
handed  down  the  chair  to  her,  an'  she  tuk 
it  in  her  arms,  an'  sez  she,  '  My !  aint  it  a 
beauty? '  An'  then  she  put  it  on  the  step 
an'  set  right  down  in  it,  rockin'  back'ards 
an'  for'ards,  for  all  the  world  jest  like  a 
child  pleased  with  a  new  toy.  It  made  me 
oncommon  happy  to  see  her  a-settin'  there 
in  the  sunshine,  the  very  prettiest  girl  in 


The  Las'  Day.  35 

these  parts,  an'  to  know  that  she  was 
allers  goin'  to  stay  with  me  ontil  Death 
come  to  part  us.  My  eyes  was  kinder 
misty  ez  I  went  off  to  the  barn  to  put 
Dolly  up,  an'  for  all  my  gladness  I  felt  a 
good  deal  of  seriousness  come  over  me.  I 
jest  could  n't  help  feelin'  grateful  to  God 
for  lettin'  her  be  my  wife,  an'  I  felt  ez  ef 
I  ought  to  be  prayin',  only  I  never  was 
much  of  a  prayin'  chap,  so  I  moved  about 
kinder  slow  an'  sollum,  an'  then  she  come 
out  to  help  me.  She  hung  on  to  my  arm, 
I  remember,  when  we  went  into  supper. 
After  the  dishes  was  cleared  away  an'  the 
place  tidied  up,  we  set  out  on  the  door- 
step, me  in  my  big,  ole  chair,  an'  she  in 
her  new  little  one,  side  by  side,  a-holdin' 
each  other's  hands,  talkin'  an'  keepin'  still, 
That 's  the  way  we  useter  do  all  summer, 
an'  when  the  weather  growed  cold  then 
our  chairs  was  still  side  by  side  in  doors. 
An'  one  night,  near  Thanksgivin'  time, 
when  she  was  rockin'  back'ards  an'  for'ards 
in  her  chair,  she  told  me  suthin'  ez  made 


56  The  Las'  Day. 

me  feel  like  the  very  proudest  an'  happiest 
man  in  the  hull  world.  All  that  winter 
she  useter  set  by  my  side  in  the  evenin's 
busy  fashionin'  some  funny  little  clothes. 

"  Do  ye  wonder  that  I  loved  that  chair, 
an'  that  I  growed  to  love  it  more  when 
after  the  baby  come  she  would  set  there 
with  him  in  her  arms  rockin'  an'  singin'  ? 
She's  a  voice  jest  like  a  bird's  an'  she'd 
sing  all  my  favrit  songs  an'  all  her  own, 
an'  some  was  funny  an'  some  was  sad,  but 
she  loved  the  hymn  tunes  best.  There 
was  one  that  I  was  powerful  fond  of  too. 
It  was  all  about  the  shepherds'  watchin' 
their  flocks  at  night,  an'  the  angels  ap- 
pearin'  with  "  tidin's  of  great  joy,"  tellin' 
them  that  Jesus  was  born.  When  she 
sung  that  tune  I  useter  think  of  that 
young  Mother,  so  many  years  ago,  singin' 
to  her  little  Baby  an'  lovin'  Him,  for  all 
the  world  jest  like  my  wife  loved  our  little 
one.  An'  it  come  over  me  then  that  that 
Baby  held  the  key  in  His  little  fingers  to 
unlock  all  the  treasures  of  Heaven  and  of 


The  Las'  Day.  %j 

airth  too.  For  His  key  is  jest  Love  !  An' 
then  it  seemed  to  me,  a-settin'  there  in  the 
shadder  watchin'  my  wife  an'  our  little 
chap,  that  all  the  babies  ever  sence  hev 
brought  keys  with  'em  from  God,  an'  they 
unlock  our  hearts  an'  teach  us  the  truest 
kind  o'  love,  —  the  love  that  takes  care  of 
an'  watches  over,  an'  makes  a  man  think  o' 
suthin'  else  in  this  world  besides  his  own 
self.  Why,  when  our  baby  was  here,  it 
seemed  to  me  my  heart  was  jest  runnin' 
over  with  good  will  to  everybody.  —  Did 
ye  say  anything,  Ma'm  ?  " 

I  shook  my  head,  for  I  was  so  touched 
by  his  simple  recital  that  I  could  not  trust 
myself  to  speak. 

"  Well,  them  was  happy  times,"  he 
went  on,  with  a  smile  deepening  in  his 
eyes,  "  an'  the  boy  growed  strong  an'  big. 
We  useter  hev  sech  frolics  every  night 
before  his  bedtime.  He  'd  come  an'  set 
on  my  knees,  an'  Marthy  she'd  play  peek- 
boo  behind  my  chair,  an'  laws  !  how  that 
young  un  would  chuckle  an'  holler  !  An' 


38  The  Las'  Day. 

then  Marthy  would  ketch  him  in  her  arms 
an'  cuddle  an'  kiss  him,  an'  call  him  a 
thousand  pretty  names  a  minute.  She 
loved  him  with  all  her  heart,  an'  he  loved 
her  back.  He  was  powerful  fond  of  me 
too,  but  I  wan't  nowheres  besides  his 
'  Ma'm.'  It  almost  kilt  her  when  he  was 
taken.  He  was  jest  past  his  third  birth- 
day, an'  was  so  strong  we  never  thought 
he  'd  git  sick.  But  there  was  scarlit  fever 
all  'round,  an'  he  tuk  it  an'  Marthy  she 
was  like  one  possessed.  She  would  n't  let 
no  one  tech  him,  she  jest  tuk  care  of  him 
night  an'  day.  An'  it  seemed  ez  ef  he 
did  n't  want  her  to  go  out  of  his  sight,  he 
useter  look  at  her  with  sech  lovin'  eyes  an' 
cry,  '  Ma'm  !  Ma'm  ! '  I  'd  set  for  hours 
on  the  stairs  jest  outside  the  room  longin' 
to  do  suthin',  jest  to  hold  him  an'  soothe 
him  mebbe,  but  she  would  n't  let  me  try. 
She  was  so  fierce  about  it  too  that  the 
Doctor  sez  we  'd  better  humor  her.  But 
for  all  her  lovin'  an'  nussin'  she  could  n't 
keep  him  with  her ! 


The  Las'  Day.  39 

"  After  that  she  went  about  the  house 
like  a  shadder,  never  smilin'  an'  hardly 
ever  speakin',  but  jest  lookin'  cold  an' 
still  an'  ez  ef  she'd  ben  crushed.  I  could  n't 
git  her  to  chirk  up  't  all.  Come  evenin's 
we  'd  set  down  in  our  chairs,  an'  I  'd  try 
to  cheer  her  an'  tell  her  'bout  the  gossip 
down  to  the  store,  but  she  'd  jest  set  an' 
watch  the  fire  an'  never  hear  a  blessed 
word  I  'd  say.  An'  biineby  she  moved  her 
chair,  —  that  little  rocking-chair,  —  over 
to  the  other  side  of  the  chimbly  ez  ef  she 
wanted  to  think  her  own  thoughts.  I  let 
her  alone  then,  an'  read  the  '  Pioneer/ 
an'  looked  at  the  funny  picters  in  the 
Almanac,  but  the  evenin's  was  dreffle  long, 
for  I  'm  sosh'able  myself,  an'  it  taint  pleas- 
ant to  set  so  mum. 

"  That  was  the  beginnin'  of  it,  Ma'm  ! 
I  did  think  o'  the  little  chap,  an'  missed 
him  more  than  ever  I  could  tell.  I  useter 
think  'bout  him  when  I  'd  be  at  my  work, 
an'  it  would  come  over  me  all  of  a  suddint 
that  he  was  gone,  an'  many  's  the  time  I've 


40  The  Las'  Day. 

jest  set  right  down  an'  cried,  longin'  for 
him  ag'in.  P'r'aps  I  did  n't  miss  him  the 
way  she  did,  for  I  was  workin'  outdoors 
pretty  near  all  day  ;  but  my  heart  was 
heavy  with  his  loss  even  ef  I  did  n't  say 
much  'bout  it.  I  never  was  much  of  a 
hand  to  talk  'bout  what  I  felt  deepest. 
An'  I  don't  say  that  it  did  n't  come  hardest 
on  her,  for  she  'd  hed  all  the  nussin'  to  do, 
though  I  was  longin'  to  help  her.  But  it 
seemed  to  me  she  hed  n't  no  right  to 
make  me  of  no  account,  an'  to  think  me 
onfeelin*  jest  because  I  whistled  'round 
the  house  an'  at  my  work.  Sometimes  a 
man  whistles  gay  tunes  even  ef  his  heart 
is  heavy,  —  he  aint  a-thinkin'  o'  the  tunes. 
Whistlin'  is  second  nature  to  some  men  ! 
But  she  did  n't  onderstand  me,  an'  we  'd 
ben  man  an'  wife  for  goin'  on  five  years. 

"  At  fust  I  tried  honest  not  to  whistle, 
but  I  might  jest  ez  well  hev  tried  to  stop 
breathin'  an'  live.  I  jest  could  n't  do  it 
nohow!  The  fust  time  she  looked  hurt, 
an'  I  stopped  short  ez  ef  I  'd  ben  shot. 


The  Las'  Day.  41 

But  after  that,  when  the  whistle  would 
come  in  spite  of  me,  an"  she  'd  toss  up  her 
head  impatient  an'  scornful,  then  I  did  feel 
angry.  An"  oncet  I  did  bang  out  o*  the 
house,  an'  I  did  whistle  ez  I  passed  the 
winder  jest  on  purpose.  It  wa'  n't  long 
before  the  hard  words  come  on  top  of  the 
hard  looks.  The  fust  we  hed  was  all 
along  of  a  batch  o'  doughnuts.  We  hed 
n't  hed  no  doughnuts  nor  pies  for  a  dreffle 
long  time,  an'  I  was  jest  hankerin'  for 
some.  I  asked  her  pleasant-like  about 
'em,  —  well,  p'r'aps  I  did  put  it  in  too 
jokin'  a  way,  but  I  thought  that  would  be 
the  best  thing  to  do,  — an'  she  flared  right 
up,  an'  so  the  quarr'l  began.  I  did  n't  think 
to  tell  her  then  that  a  man  kin  be  heart- 
hungry  an'  yet  hev  a  cravin'  for  doughnuts 
an'  sech  things  ef  he  's  ben  workin'  out  in 
the  open  air,  an'  he  kin  remember  an'  love 
his  little  dead  baby  even  ef  he 's  got  a 
powerful  appetite.  I  might  hev  said  it  in 
a  soothin'  fashion,  an'  she  could  n't  hev 
growed  angry,  but  bless  ye  !  I  did  n't  think 


42  The  Las'  Day. 

of  that  till  I  was  out  in  the  barn  by  myself 
mendin'  Dolly's  harness,  an'  then  it  was 
too  late !  We  'd  hed  our  words  then, 
an'  they  hed  ben  very  hard,  cruel  ones. 
When  I  come  into  dinner  she  'd  a  batch  o' 
doughnuts  on  the  table  an*  her  eyes  was 
all  red  ;  but  she  did  n't  say  nothin',  an'  I 
did  n't  either.  An  what 's  more,  I  did  n't 
tech  one  of  them  doughnuts,  though  they 
was  great,  big  ones  an'  my  mouth  jest 
watered  a-lookin'  at  'em. 

"  After  that  we  hed  our  quarr'ls  pretty 
frequent.  Seems  to  me  we  never  opened 
our  mouths  onless  it  was  to  say  angry 
words.  So  with  things  like  that  at  home, 
I  useter  go  down  to  Greene's  tavern  in 
the  evenin'.  At  fust  it  was  only  oncet  a 
week,  come  Saturday,  to  hear  the  news. 
An'  then,  because  it  was  so  pleasant  an' 
cheerful  there,  an'  so  lonesome  an'  dull  to 
hcme  I  went  oftener,  an'  bimeby  I  useter 
go  every  night.  Folks  begun  to  gossip 
an'  say  't  was  hard  on  Marthy,  but  some 
of  'em  tuk  my  side  an'  sez  I  was  druv  to 


The  Las'  Day.  43 

it.  An'  then  her  people  stepped  in  an' 
talked  to  her  'bout  my  goin's-on,  an' 
helped  to  widen  the  breach,  an'  my  folks 
come  over  to  p'int  out  her  dooty.  But 
she  was  allers  strong-willed  was  Marthy, 
an'  she  would  n't  listen  to  reason,  — she  'd 
jest  do  ez  she  pleased.  That 's  the  way 
with  them  little  women,  they  've  got  wills 
like  iron,  an'  ye  can't  bend  'em  nohow  ! 
They  can't  be  druv,  they  need  gentle 
handlin'.  So  one  night,  ez  I  was  startin' 
for  Greene's,  she  stopped  me  an'  asked 
sarcastic-like  for  a  few  minutes  o'  my 
vally'ble  time.  That  angered  me  to  begin 
with,  an'  when  she  went  on  an'  sez  ez  how 
't  was  the  bitterest  thing  in  the  world  for 
her  to  go  on  livin'  with  one  who  'd  showed 
hisself  onfeelin'  an'  hed  deserted  his  home, 
an'  she  wanted  to  go  back  to  her  own 
folks,  I  told  her  to  go  an'  welcome,  an' 
the  sooner  she  went  the  better  I  'd  like  it. 
Then  I  rushed  out,  slammin'  the  door  be- 
hind me.  I  did  n't  go  to  Greene's  that 
night,  though  a  rum  toddy  might  hev  set 


44  The  Las'  Day. 

me  up.  I  jest  wandered  about  kinder 
hopeless-like,  an'  finally  I  brought  up  in 
the  churchyard  an'  stayed  there  for  a  long 
time  by  the  baby's  grave.  I  could  n't 
help  feelin',  ye  see,  ef  he  'd  lived,  things 
would  hev  ben  diffrunt, —  what  with  his 
little  lovin'  ways,  he  would  a-kept  us 
together ! 

"  I  did  n't  tell  Marthy  where  I  'd  ben 
when  I  went  home,  I  wa'  n't  led  to.  I 
thought  she  would  n't  b'l'eve  it,  though  I 
could  hev  showed  her  that  I  brought  away 
a  handful  of  the  asters  she  'd  left  on  the 
grave  that  day.  But  I  did  n't  tell  her,  an' 
the  nex'  mornin'  she  sez  very  cheerful  that 
she  'd  be  ready  to  go  home  come  Thurs- 
day, an'  she  'd  sign  any  papers  I  'd  want 
her  to.  Then  I  knowed  she  'd  ben  makin' 
her  preparations  on  the  sly,  but  I  could  n't 
cross  her  somehow.  An'  when  she  asked 
for  the  chair  I  told  her  she  might  hev  it, 
though  my  heart  felt  like  breakin'.  I  was 
too  proud  to  let  her  see  my  feelin's,  or  to 
try  to  make  up  then.  But  I  never  sus- 


The  Las'  Day.  45 

picioned  it  would  hurt  so  much  to  find  it 
reelly  gone.  It  kinder  makes  me  quiver 
all  over  even  now  to  think  o"  the  time 
when  I  fust  missed  it,  that  Wednesday,  for 
then  I  knowed  trooly  it  was  the  las'  day, 
—  our  las'  day  !  " 

He  put  up  his  hand,  and  brushed  away 
the  tears  that  were  filling  his  eyes.  There 
was  an  unconscious  dignity  about  him 
that  appealed  strongly  to  me.  He  was 
not  in  the  least  ashamed  that  I  had  seen 
his  emotion. 

"  There  ain't  much  more  to  tell,"  he  said 
in  a  husky  voice.  "  I  could  n't  set  no  long- 
er in  the  kitching,  it  was  so  still.  The 
hull  house  was  oncommon  quiet.  An'  the 
thought  come  over  me  to  account  for  the 
stillness  that  she  hed  gone  away.  I  called 
'  Marthy  ! '  —  not  very  loud  for  the  word 
stuck  in  my  throat,  —  an'  I  stretched  out 
my  arms,  but  she  did  n't  come  to  answer 
my  call.  Ye  see  I  'd  ben  hopin'  she  'd  at 
least  say  good  by,  but  I  told  myself  then 
that  p'r'aps  it  hed  seemed  best  to  her  to 


46  The  Las'  Day. 

slip  away  without  a  sign  or  a  word  of 
partin'  ?  There  wa'  n't  much  comfort  to 
be  got  out  of  words  between  us. 

"  But  it  was  so  still,  — an'  it  was  stiller 
upstairs  !  I  peeked  into  all  the  rooms,  an' 
everything  was  clean  an'  sweet  only  she 
wa'  n't  there.  Ez  I  passed  the  winders  I 
could  see  the  trees  a-wavin'  their  branches, 
an'  I  knowed  right  well  what  they  was 
sayin'.  I  could  n't  go  outdoors  to  hear 
'em  mockin'  an'  laughin'  at  me,  an'  I 
could  n't  go  down  stairs  ag'in  an'  miss  the 
little  chair,  so  I  jest  kep'  right  on  to  the 
garret.  I  could  poke  about  there  for  a 
little  while,  I  thought. 

"  I  crep'  into  the  long,  dark  room,  an'  the 
very  fust  thing  I  seed  was  Marthy  in  her 
gray  frock  a-kneelin'  by  the  baby's  high 
chair.  She  'd  her  arms  about  it,  an'  her 
head  was  down  on  'em.  I  stud  still  for  a 
moment  hardly  breathin',  then  I  turned 
softly  to  go  out  ag'in  an'  to  go  down  stairs 
to  the  lonely  room.  But  she  didn't  stir, 
so  I  knowed  she  hed  n't  heerd  me.  I  jest 


The  Las'  Day.  47 

said,  'Marthy!'  very  low;  but  still  she 
knelt  there,  an'  then  a  great  fear  come 
over  me.  P'r'aps  she  was  dead,  —  p'r'aps, 
when  she  'd  come  to  bid  good  by  to  the 
baby's  things,  her  strength  hed  given  out. 
I  don't  know  to  this  day  how  I  got  acrost 
the  room  to  her  side,  but  then  I  saw  that 
she  wa'  n't  dead,  —  she  'd  jest  fallen  asleep. 
I  stud  an'  watched  her, — 't  wa'n't  no  harm ! 
It  was  the  las'  day,  an'  I  wanted  to  say 
good  by.  She  seemed  so  little  an'  helpless 
ez  she  knelt  there  a-holdin'  the  chair  so 
lovin'ly  !  I  could  only  see  one  cheek,  but 
it  looked  so  soft  an'  white,  —  for  all  the 
world  jest  like  a  late,  pale  brier-rose,  —  an' 
there  was  tear  stains  on  it  an'  the  drops 
was  standin'  in  her  long  lashes.  My  lips 
jest  trembled  to  kiss  them  tears  away ! 
Somehow  ez  I  looked  at  her  I  forgot  all 
the  bitter  words  we  hed  hed,  an'  I  could 
only  remember  the  sweetness  she  hed 
brought  into  my  life.  I  could  only  think 
of  her  ez  gentle  an'  good,  an'  there  was  a 
look  about  her  mouth  that  was  patient,  an' 


48  The  Las'  Day. 

it  seemed  holy  to  me  too.  An'  of  a  sud- 
dint  I  thought  of  the  angels  an'  'the 
tidin's  of  great  joy,'  an'  that  other  Mother, 
an'  I  felt  humbled  right  away.  I  don't 
know  how  long  I  stud  there.  I  did  n't 
know  what  to  do,  —  I  wanted  to  be  led  to 
do  suthin'.  The  wind  outside  was  growin' 
louder,  an'  it  seemed  ez  ef  it  was  sayin', 
'  The  las'  day,'  '  The  las'  day,'  over  an' 
over  ag'in.  I  could  n't  pray.  I  did  n't 
know  what  I  wanted,  only  that  I  wanted 
suthin'.  So  I  jest  stud  there  sayin'  softly 
to  myself,  '  O  God  !  O  God  !  '  An'  then 
suddintly  it  seemed  ez  ef  suthin'  very 
small  an'  soft  hed  hold  of  my  fingers.  It 
was  like  a  child's  hand !  Guess  a  man 
knows  the  feel  of  a  little  child's  hand  tug- 
gin'  at  his  fingers  an'  tryin'  to  lead  him 
to  do  suthin'.  I  did  n't  hold  back.  I  jest 
let  myself  go,  an'  the  little  hand  clasped 
my  big  one  very  tight  an'  drawed  it  —  an' 
drawed  it  —  down  ontil  it  lay  on  Marthy's 
arm.  Then  the  little  fingers  let  go  their 
hold.  Marthy  stirred  an'  turned  her  face 


The  Las'  Day.  49 

so  ez  I  could  see  more  of  it,  but  she  didn't 
open  her  eyes.  She  was  still  asleep.  She 
gave  a  great  sob  ez  ef  she  was  dreamin' 
of  suthin'  sad,  an'  cried  out,  '  Dave !  O 
Dave !  ' 

"  I  drawed  back  my  hand  then.  She 
was  dreamin'  of  the  little  chap.  But  jest  ez 
true  ez  ye  live,  I  heerd  a  child's  voice  say 
in  my  ear,  '  She  allers  called  me  Baby  an' 
Precious,  she  never  called  me  Dave !  ' 

"  So  I  knelt  right  down  by  Marthy  an' 
put  my  arms  'round  her,  an'  at  that  she 
opened  her  eyes  an'  looked  at  me.  She 
raised  her  hand,  an'  I  thought  fust  she  was 
goin'  to  push  me  away,  but  she  drawed 
my  face  down  to  hers,  an'  sez  she,  jest  ez 
simple  ez  a  little  child,  '  I  was  dreamin'  o' 
ye,  Dave  ;  I  was  dreamin'  ye  was  goin' 
away  an'  Baby  brought  ye  back  to  me.' 
An'  all  I  could  say  ez  I  kissed  her  an' 
cried  over  her  was,  '  So  he  did,  my  dear, 
so  he  did.' 

"  An'  it  was  there  by  the  baby's  little 
chair  that  we  made  it  all  up.  An'  I  told 
4 


50  The  Las'  Day. 

her  'bout  my  lonesomeness  an'  my  missin' 
the  little  chap,  an'  we  grovved  to  onder- 
stand  each  other.  We  agreed  to  let  that 
be  the  las'  day  for  all  bickerin's  an'  on- 
kindnesses,  an'  to  live  a  better  life,  with 
God's  help,  in  the  days  to  come. 

"  It  was  rainin'  outside  when  we  went 
down  to  the  kitching,  an'  the  trees  was 
tossin'  their  arms,  an'  the  wind  was  wailin', 
but  they  could  n't  jeer  at  me  no  longer. 
I  thanked  God  in  my  heart  for  the  sun- 
shine in  my  home,  an'  I  thank  Him  still." 


The  Las'  Day. 


V. 


A  SILENCE  settled  down  between  us 
•t*-  as  he  finished  his  simple  story.  I 
felt  strangely  awed  as  if  a  fellow  being's 
soul  had  been  bared  before  me,  and  I  had 
seen  into  its  depths,  past  the  gayety  and 
sunshine,  to  the  holy  ground  where  the 
shadows  lay.  I  could  not  speak.  This 
was  no  time  for  a  conventional  expression 
of  gratitude,  the  feelings  his  story  had 
stirred  lay  too  deep  for  words.  I  leaned 
toward  him  with  outstretched  hand,  and  as 
he  took  it  in  his  strong  clasp  there  came 
to  us  faintly  on  the  soft  air  the  sound  of 
a  woman's  voice  calling,  "  Dave  !  Dave !" 

A  bright  smile  overspread  his  face, 
making  the  homely  features  almost  beau- 
tiful. 

"  I  must  be  goin*  home,"  he  said  simply, 
"  Marthy  wants  me.  Good  night." 


52  The  Las'  Day. 

He  turned  from  me  with  a  little  nod, 
and  strode  away  through  the  fields  whis- 
tling as  he  went.  I  watched  his  tall, 
round-shouldered  figure  until  a  dip  in  the 
land  hid  him  from  view,  then  I  turned  and 
looked  about  me.  The  sun  had  long  since 
sunk  below  the  horizon,  but  the  clouds  in 
the  west  were  still  tinged  with  its  glory. 
They  looked  like  a  row  of  angels  with 
bowed  heads  and  folded  wings.  As  I 
watched  them  idly,  they  slipped  away  back 
to  their  home,  it  seemed  to  me,  leaving  the 
door  open  a  little  behind  them,  through 
which  the  light  of  heaven  came  in  a  tender 
glow. 

In  the  near  distance  stood  the  old  gray 
house,  silhouetted  against  the  sky  dark 
and  strong,  —  a  little  unpretentious  build- 
ing,—  but  as  I  passed  it  in  the  twilight  I 
knew  in  my  heart  that  it  was  a  kingdom 
of  Content! 

THE   END. 


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A     000032781     7 


